New Leaves and Promises
by Margo Vizzini-Montoya
Summary: DG and the Mystic Man's daughter explain from their perspectives what life is like post-Eclipse and how they became lovers of their respective Cain men. Pairings: DG/Jeb, Cain/OC, and slight Az/Glitch.
1. Chapter 1

**AN: **So I was writing a much longer post-Tin Man story with a Cain-DG pairing (which I'm a big fan of) and began to wonder what a DG-Jeb pairing would look like, and so the first two chapters of this story was born...And then, I asked myself, What about Cain? And so, the third chapter's plot bunny arrived. And well, I hope you enjoy ; )

**Rating: **R - for language and EXPLICIT sexual references, a.k.a. smut

**Disclaimer: **I do not own anything related to Tin Man. I just like to make them my playthings.

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**New Leaves Part One:**

_**DG:**_

I was home. I had family. I had friends. And I was a princess.

So okay, life couldn't be perfect, but it was pretty damn near close.

All kidding aside, home has its issues. It was after all ravaged by the evil Sorceress consumed with the desire to extinguish all Light. The Papay fields needed to be restored, the Wastelands rejuvenated, Longcoats and collaborators caught and prosecuted, all sorts of things. So as a family, we were kept pretty busy after the Double Eclipse.

Az also needed work. She was a lost, traumatized young woman who was struggling with separating her identity from the Witch's. Slowly, but surely, with lots of love and patience, she was recovering and on the road to self-forgiveness.

Turning over a new leaf in our post-Sorceress life, Az and I made a pact. We would not let life, witches, or fashion (this one was more for me than her) dictate to us. We would take charge of our lives instead of reacting to them, and we would not give an inch of figurative ground to our fears.

It was a pact we had to renew every day because life in the O.Z. under Reconstruction was constantly throwing challenges our way. Nomes with the intention of using their crazy ninja assassin skills on us Gale women invaded the City through underground tunnels. Greedy nobles, who would rather maintain their profits than help the less fortunate, sought to rest power away from the crown and into the hands of the council all because they took exception to us for asking _so _much of them. _Puh-lease_. Gossiping, spiteful courtier ladies who resented our youth, beauty, and status appeal to the limited pool of eligible bachelors were constantly slurring our characters and nitpicking every action we made. These are just a few examples of our trials.

My relationship with my parents needed to be rebuilt from the ground up. I had those few memories of my mother and the dreams, and of my father, a vague echo of a child's love for her daddy. I wasn't their little girl anymore, and although I was raised by OZians who instilled in me O.Z. values, I had grown up in a vastly different culture. It had helped that my father had understood where I was coming from (Thank goodness, he had experienced some of the sixties before he had crossed over) and that my mother was such a wise and patient woman. Little by little we were making progress.

As for my Robo-parents, they had been restored and were now showering love on the Central City orphans. I got to visit with them weekly, usually helping around the orphanage doing repairs – which Momsy got a kick out of because if fixing toilets was not too beneath a princess of the realm then washing dishes or doing laundry wasn't beneath her charges, as she frequently reminded them when they began to complain.

Raw was accepted again by his people. It seems that his heroic actions in helping me with my quest cancelled out his earlier cowardice. After reuniting Kalm with his mother, he had returned to the City at the Queen and Consort's request and became the family's Screener. He was so gifted an empath that anyone with harmful intent towards the family was spotted a mile off, which is how we detected the nomes. He also was a great friend to me and Az. He soothed her when her guilt and nightmares became overwhelming, and he soothed my fears and insecurities when my new career became too much. What we do in turn for him, I'll never know.

Glitch got his brain back. Reconnecting his neural networks has taken some time, so his adorable quirks are still present minus the zipper. He advises mother, but he is more like a Chief of Staff than a Minister of Technology and Experiments, which had been his former title. He still experiments, but there are far more explosions and half-burnt eyebrows involved than when he was just Ambrose.

He too has been a blessing to Az and me. He bolsters our confidences with his unflagging faith in the Gale women. He makes us laugh at his antics, and provides us the listening ear we need. This last is a rare find, because believe it or not, the O.Z. is filled with the same kind of greedy, grasping political vipers that good old Terra is, even with the Witch gone.

He has been a good friend, and I am happy to return the favor, which is probably why I have known before anyone else – except maybe Raw – that there was more than just friendship between him and Az.

The evening of my discovery, the three of us were chilling in mine and Az's shared sitting room. Az had fallen asleep in her chair by the fireplace. The book of Other-side poetry that Ahamo had given her was open in her lap and the Irish wolfhound puppy (Lumino, or Lum for short) that Glitch had given her was curled up on her feet, taking his duty as her personal foot-warmer quite seriously.

I had been so absorbed in my sketches that Glitch must have felt comfortable enough to let down his guard and just stare at her in awe and adoration from his position in the chair next to hers. When he saw that I had caught him, he blushed, sheepishly saying, _"So the cat's out of the bag."_

"_I won't tell anyone,"_ I promised, whispering.

"_Not even her?"_ he asked hopefully and yet sadly.

"_Not even her,"_ I replied solemnly, my heart going out to him. _"Are you ever going to tell her?"_

He waved his hand, saying hopelessly, _"What's the point? …The point? …The point?"_

"_Glitch?"_ I cut in, concerned. He only did this when his emotions were really high and deeply felt.

Rubbing at his forehead, he mumbled morosely, "_She'll never see me that way. We're barely friends as it is, because she can scarcely see past this infernal scar without flinching."_

"_I think you give her far too little credit, my usually intrepid and wise friend,"_ I murmured in my sister's defense.

He just shrugged and got up, brushing a light kiss across the top of Az's hair before he slipped from the room.

But little did we know that my sister is an excellent actress and was awake enough to catch the gist of that conversation. As a result, she began to look at him in whole different light. And in the spirit of turning over a new leaf and keeping in mind of our pact, she did an uncharacteristically audacious thing.

Just before midnight on the eve of the New Annual, she slipped out of the overcrowded ballroom to the balcony. She was soon (predictably) joined by Glitch. And when the clock struck twelve, Azkadellia Gale, princess of the O.Z., employed an Other-side custom and kissed her prince silly to welcome in the new annual and declare her love.

How do I know all this? Well, I confess – I'm an unrepentant voyeur.

I had hid behind a tall plant in the opposite balcony. My only regret is that I couldn't get closer to hear what was said. Az is a private person and still refuses to divulge the details and so responsible that she turns down the alcoholic beverages I ply her with when she begins to feel the least bit tipsy. Humph.

And now we come to the Cains.

Tin Man Cain accepted the post offered him by the Queen as head of the Central City law enforcement. Ever since the Eclipse (minus a short stint when he was handling personal affairs like his and Adora's cabin), he has been reforming the police force that the Witch disbursed and cleaning up the City.

I also have weekly visits with him so I can report that he too is recovering. He's still grieving for Adora and healing from his time in the iron maiden and has yet to take Glitch up on his offer to find him a professional psychiatrist that can help him deal with his boy scout syndrome or deeper issues, but he's okay.

And for the record, he's still _just_ a friend, and I am _not_ secretly pining for there to be more.

Why not? Because _this_ princess doesn't follow the normal fairy tale plot. She did most of the rescuing in her adventure, and although very thankful for her knight in shining armor, she has not felt the need to be swept off her feet by him and taken to his castle as a prize.

Don't get me wrong. He's very, _very_ attractive – with those deep blue eyes of his, capable hands, soothing masculine voice, his broad, well, _everything_, and his tight ass. His very presence is masculine and protective, the epitome of Cowboy Hero in both the genres of little boy westerns and big girl romances.

All of these marvelous qualities did lead me to consider him in a romantic way. I even got to the point of imagining heavy make-out sessions, but every time I imagined us _doing it_, his face would freeze in the most ridiculous sex face and my fantasy would implode with my laughter. I mean really? Serious, overprotective Wyatt Cain dropping his stoic mask along with his pants and…and…yeah, it's just not something I can get beyond.

So he's my best friend. I fix his appliances, draw him sketches and paint him pictures to brighten up his bachelor pad, and tell him the latest Dorothigale gaffe at court, like at the University's first polo tourney 'accidentally' sloshing my raspberry Gillikin ice all down young Lord Grabby-hands' shirt front. He listens to my tales of woe over yet another frustrating day of lessons with Toto, and at the end of them, faithfully offers to shoot the Pooch. He also cooks me delicious home-cooked meals that the Palace kitchens can't seem to do and Momsy doesn't have the time for when I visit, and teaches me how to whittle.

He still calls me 'Kid,' but not because he sees me as one – no, he does better than Ahamo does in that department – but because I'm like a daughter to him; the daughter that he gets to do all the fun things with and none of unpleasant disciplinary things. In the case of Grabby-hands, he got to laugh with me over the man's outrage, and then he taught me how to lay anyone out flat who got too friendly like that again. Poor Ahamo had to stand behind mother and look stern as she lectured me on the proper way to handle such situations.

He's my friend. He'd do anything for me, and I'd do anything for him, which is why I made it my personal mission to bring laughter and joy into his son's dark and loss-filled life.

Jeb Cain had given up his life of violence the night of the Eclipse. He had seen too much blood and death, and so he had respectfully declined the Queen's offer of a command in her newly formed army. Instead, he had enrolled at the Central City University. He has yet to declare a major, unsure of his own likes and dislikes much less goals, so he dabbles in a little of everything – except medicine. Even the basic anatomy class dissections bring back too many horrific memories.

As to what Jeb thought of my mission…let's just say that he at first was none too receptive. He thought that my bi-monthly to weekly visits were his father's way of checking up on him. (As if the Chief Tin Man would do something so overt.) But as soon as finals week came around, he became much more receptive to my royal demands that he take a break from his studies to go on mini-expeditions with me.

We went on picnics, hikes, and herb-gathering forays (to replenish Raw's stores). I made him teach me basic survival stuff, and I taught him how to ride a motorcycle.

I'm not ashamed to say that my stunt with the Gillikin ice had been done mostly for his benefit. Over Lord Lech's shoulder, I had seen Jeb with his dorm mates. They were laughing at some freshman's misfortune, but he was watching the two of us and looking positively murderous. (His father would have been so proud of his chivalrous son.) I wanted to make him smile. I got an outright laugh instead. It was glorious.

Yep, it was right in that moment that I knew I had fallen head over heels in love with my best friend's son.

I loved his integrity. I loved his take charge attitude. I loved his passion. He may have mastered the Cain poker face and stoic expression, but the man felt everything so strongly, down to his bones, which is why his whole body shook when he was overcome with fury or laughter.

I loved his devotion to his family and friends. Every week, he goes and visits his men and women who are still recovering from their wounds in the hospital. And although he's still struggling to find the right footing in his relationship with his father, anytime someone makes a derogatory remark because they don't like his policies, he greatly desires to set them straight. One man was foolish enough to refuse to recant his statement _and _get into Jeb's face about it. Jeb walked away with a beaut of a black eye; the other guy left on a stretcher.

I loved his ability to be a good judge of character. He had taken one look at Az the night of the Eclipse and had seen the truth of our story about the possession. He needed nothing more.

I loved his ability to assign blame exactly where it belongs. He refused to let his father torture himself over how his Resistance activities led to their family's tragedy. "Zero and the Witch were to blame, period." And when I had confessed the reason behind my nightmares - my guilt for letting go of Az and abandoning her to the Witch - he got so offended on my child-self's behalf that he actually vocalized what his outraged Look was communicating.

"_You were five. You're sister was twelve. You're combined magic may have been strong enough to have withstood the centuries old witch, or it may not have. She could have sent her mobats to separate you, and the end result would have been the same. You don't know. The Sorceress and those who chose to support her over your mother caused the fifteen years' worth of devastation. Not you. Got that, Princess?"_

I loved the cute yet irritating little half-smirk of his that he used when someone (such as me) had done something positively foolish. I loved how when he is tired from long nights of studying he splays his fingers from both hands over his face and mushes it together, making the most hideous pug-like, or maybe a better descriptive is deformed fish-like, faces. I loved how when he was nervous about something, he would scratch the back of his head three times and then pat down his rumpled hair twice. I loved how he looked like such a bad boy sitting all sexily astride my motorcycle.

I love him.

And I had no idea how he felt about me. But in the name of not giving into my fears, I began the campaign of wooing said sir.

All of my mini-school vacation activities began to involve things like archery, shooting a rifle, and so forth because they "required" that he touch me to demonstrate. And when we rode my motorcycle, I would tighten my grip around him far more than was strictly necessary and press my curves into him as I would breathily or huskily whisper directions or encouragement into his ear. I _am_ ashamed to say that I sunk to the level of chick flick ploys. But all things are fair in love and war, right?

I even went so far as to pretend I, a home-bred farm girl, didn't know how to fish, and he had to assist me in casting the first few times, pressing my body into his lean frame "for support" and all that. And for that fib, I got punished.

You see, Jeb Cain is no one's fool. He caught on pretty quickly. So the third time I did this, he pressed back, causing my brain to go into a hormonal stupor, which allowed him to take the rod from my hands, set it aside, and then pick me up and threw me off the pier into the lake water below without any interference on my part.

Still drawing on chick flick clichés, when he went to help me out, I pulled him in with me to retaliate and a water-dunking fight ensued. But that's where the cliché ends, because (sadly) we did _not _kiss at the end of it.

After we got out, I asked him, _"What did you do that for?"_

He just gave me a Look. Cain men Looks speak volumes, by the way, and Jeb's was particularly eloquent. His raised eyebrows, his narrow, skeptical eyes, and his pursed lips with a slight turn up at the corner as if he was slightly amused said this: _You know _**exactly** _why I did that. You know how to fish and were just using your wily woman ways in an attempt to seduce me. I'm flattered, but really? That was the best you could come up with? So you know, I know, and the OZian people know that you totally deserved it. Don't deny it._

I blushed. It was rather embarrassing to be caught out like that.

But as I was wallowing in self-pity, he silently stalked up to me, grabbed my shoulders, forcing me to face him. And when I looked up at him startled, he kissed me. Forcefully. Passionately. Desperately.

I returned it with everything I had. My hands slid up into his gloriously thick and silky locks, fisting in them as I forced him closer and angled his head just right. I pressed my soft curves against his hard wiry frame, causing him to groan and to relocate his hands from my arms to the back of my neck and my lower back, molding me to him. He nibbled on my lower lip and then sucked on it, eliciting a moan, which allowed him to slip his tongue past my (by then) swollen lips … and then I was falling.

I had jumped off a cliff to avoid Papay runners, and the feelings that I was experiencing was much like that. Amazement that this was actually happening. Giddiness from the adrenaline rush. Fear – not of suffering a horrible death in unknown waters, but fear that this was all a dream or that he would stop and I would find out it didn't mean what I thought it did.

The one emotion that hadn't been part of my cliff jumping experience was that of joy. If I had died in that moment, I would have died the happiest girl in the whole O.Z.

Unfortunately, in that moment a breeze had to blow across us letting us know that the magnificent heat that we were generating was not enough to combat the evening chill, especially for two very soaked people. So we reluctantly pulled apart and went about doing practical stuff like building a fire and so forth.

While we were drying, we had the Discussion. I confessed my love for him. He confessed his love for me. We talked of where we wanted to go from there. (We hadn't a clue other than we wanted there to be an 'us.') And we kissed _a lot_.

I am not my sister. If given enough drinks (and I never turn down a free one), I could be coaxed into sharing these emotionally intimate details, but as I'm currently not intoxicated, that's all you voyeurs are going to get.

Anyways, after that our relationship changed. _He _was the one who was the Distracter from Responsibility. He was constantly stopping by and interrupting valiant attempts to keep up with my correspondence, assigned reading, and council proposals.

His methods alternated between two delightful tactics. The first started out with him lightly rubbing the back of my neck with his rough calloused thumbs and then progressing to peppering my neck, shoulders, throat, and jaw with light kisses. The second began with a massage intended to relieve stress but would leave me as putty in his hands (what superb hands!) and ended with a heavy make-out session.

He also liked to sneak me out of the Palace and royal functions under the disguise of my glamour charms to go for mini-adventures. Some involved our usual activities, plus physical displays of affection. Some involved more sedate things like picnics and hours of sketching (with him being my primary subject; his body fascinated me so). Others included nights out on the town, dancing, dining, theatre-going, and so forth.

That's where we were tonight, the theatre. It was some horrible play about an Other-sider who seduces a betrothed woman and their union produces a wicked witch-ling child determined to destroy the pillars of OZian society. As a child of an Other-sider who did marry a betrothed woman and whose sister was the child who would later be possessed by a wicked witch who nearly succeeded in such an endeavor, I greatly resented this obvious attack on my family and their use of the arts to do it.

Jeb's warm brown eyes met mine, as he whispered, "I'm sorry. Poor choice. Do you wanna go?"

I nodded numbly and let him lead me out. We climbed into the carriage, and he immediately pulled me to his side, wrapping his arm around me as he kissed the top of my head comfortingly.

"Why do people have to be so hateful?" I mumbled into his jacket lapels, beginning to not really care any more as his scent overwhelmed me: soap, leather, and forest on a rainy day.

"I don't know," he sighed. "I've been asking myself that question since I was eleven years old."

Knowing he was thinking of the day Zero locked his father in the iron maiden, I made a soft mewl as I began to kiss my way up his neck, nipping lightly, and then soothing the flesh with a feather light brush of my lips.

He turned his head, and our lips met and sparks flew. Within seconds I was in his lap, straddling him, running my hands over his chest and abs, rocking against him along with the jolt of the carriage over the cobblestones. His left hand was buried in my hair pulling it out of the pins, with his arm supporting my back while his right hand dug into my hip, either trying to hold me still or to encourage me to grind harder. (I went with the latter interpretation.) All the while, our tongues were battling for dominance, plundering, exploring, caressing, stroking.

When the carriage came to stop outside his apartment, I pulled back gasping. He took advantage of this and began nuzzling my neck, causing me to arch into him.

"Jeb…Jeb…Do you want to continue this…?" I managed to stammer out.

He lifted his head and gave me a Look. His normally warm brown eyes were dilated with scorching passion and burning need, clearly saying: _What kind of question is that, woman?_

It was a stupid question, that's what it was. And after the night that followed, it was a question that I would never ask again.


	2. Chapter 2

**New Leaves Part Two:**

_**DG:**_

Seeing the ardor in Jeb's eyes, I swiftly got off of him and recast the glamour charm. I was a red head tonight. (Jeb's reputation on campus had increased greatly since we started dating). And we went up to his apartment, barely able to keep our hands off each other. His hands on my lower back guiding me, sometimes straying lower; mine, caressing his inner thigh teasingly. That's when we were in the presence of passersby. When we weren't, we were pressed up against the walls exchanging blistering kisses and enjoying the pleasures of roving hands.

What we were about to do wasn't the first time for us, not by far. The first had been on a river bank outside the City. It had been a viciously hot day, the last day of his second semester. I had been wading in the cool shallow waters and he had been dozing in the shade, when I got the brilliant idea to go skinny dipping... Let's just say that the boy had woken up right fast and had thought this was the most brilliant proposal that I had made yet. One thing led to another, and when we were done, we had twigs and stuff in our mussed hair and mud in uncomfortable places. But it had been spectacular. So spectacular, that we developed a fetish for repeating the experience in unconventional venues.

But tonight, if we managed to make it that far, was going to be enjoyed in a good old-fashioned bed.

(And yes, I'm quite aware of the inconsistency of not sharing the details of our mutual confessions of love and yet sharing this intimate moment now. I would just like to say that while I am not intoxicated in the usual way at the moment, I am currently drunk on Jeb Cain. And I highly doubt that I'll be hearing any complaints of T.M.I. from the peanut gallery, anyways, will I?)

We made it to his door, unlocked it, stumbled in, and the glamour charm came off along with all sorts of extraneous clothes. Shoes were kicked off, jackets were cast aside, his shirt un-tucked and unbuttoned (the former by my impatient hands, the latter by my impatient magic), and my blue satin dress was unzipped, removed, and tossed aside all before we reached his bedroom.

He pressed me up against his doorjamb, placing one still clothed leg between mine, pinning me there as he shrugged out of his shirt, his mouth never leaving mine. I trailed my hands languorously over his shoulders, down his arms, up his long torso, and around to his back, feeling every scar along the way.

He had so many of them from his years of fighting and the beating he had received at Zero's hands, the day his mother died. One morning when I was supposedly helping him study for his history exam as a way to brush up on my own O.Z. facts, we spent it all in bed, where he told me the story behind each of his scars as I kissed them to make them better.

My hands came back around the front and began to reach for his pants' fastenings, but he lightly batted them aside as he chuckled softly into my ear, his breath tickling my neck and sending shivers down my spine, "So impatient."

I nipped at his shoulder, hissing, "But that's one of the things you love about me."

He fisted his hand into my hair, pulling my face back up to his, as he rolled his hips against mine (oh _yes_!) and murmured between kisses, "That I do…" (a kiss to my temple) "but I also believe…" (to my nose) "that I said…" (at the corner of my mouth) "I love your…" (several, along my jaw) "spontaneity, …" (a nip and tug of my earlobe into his hot, wet mouth) "curiosity, compassion, and…(a tantalizing attack of tongue, lips, and teeth at that sweet spot on my throat just below my ear that always turns me into a puddle of goo) "determination…"

Not being able to take it anymore, I shoved him away from me and on to the bed, straddling him, but before I could pin _him_ down and whisper all sorts of goo-ifying things into _his_ ear, he flipped us over so he was on top and my arms were pinned to my side. He chuckled low in his throat, making it sound almost like a growl, his eyes glinting with amusement, as he dryly observed, "It looks like I've rewarded your impatience and impetuosity far too much as of late."

Quirking an eyebrow at him, I purred, "And you're going to remedy that, are you?" Damn. That sounded far too eager. So much for cool, collected, and seductive.

His lust-filled eyes darkened with promise as he most definitely growled, "Indubitably."

He returned to bestowing kisses to my face and throat once more, except where he had kissed my right temple, his lips brushed my left, and so forth. Once balance was achieved, his exploration continued to the hollow of my throat, along my collar bone, and down to my lace covered breasts, which were begging for his attention.

He obliged.

While his tongue ran along the edge of the lace, his left hand reached underneath me and undid the bra's clasp. But instead of removing it immediately, he leaned back and admired the view, his engorged pants rubbing through my barely-there silk fabric and against my clit.

He murmured in awe, "I wish you could see yourself now, so that you could capture this moment in one of your drawings…You're so aroused, chest heaving, yearning, and that blue against your creamy perfection…"

And then with a groan, the bra disappeared and his lips descended again. While his lips suckled and teased one hardened nipple, his hand massaged the other. He alternated between pinching the nipple between his thumb and forefinger and rubbing his thumb in soothing circles, while his mouth did similar things to the other. His teeth scraped along the sensitive skin as he drew it into his mouth and then he would let go, and his tongue would flick out, circling and laving and soothing, before he would blow on it, causing me to arch into him and whimper, and then he would start the pattern all over again.

And just when I thought this torture couldn't possibly continue, his mouth switched breasts and his other hand came up to take its place.

_Well, two can play at this game. What works for the goose will work for the gander._

With these truisms running through my mind and the knowledge that my hands were now free, I ran my hands up his chest, teasingly circled his nipples, and then raked my nails across their sensitized flesh.

He groaned and his hips jerked. _Score one, for Miss Impetuosity._

His eyes opened just in time to see my smirk though, causing him to seize my wrists as he scolded, "That wasn't very nice, Princess."

Still smirking, I responded coyly, "Oh, it wasn't? You certainly seemed to enjoy it." And then I rolled my hips teasingly against the bulge in his pants.

To my satisfaction, he nearly came undone right there. His whole body stiffened, and he had to close his eyes, while he struggled to gain control. When he did, he leaned down to whisper in my ear, "You seem to have forgotten that this was a lesson in patience and control, love."

I almost said something about how it was hard to keep that in mind when he did such things to me, but the man's ego didn't need _that_ much encouragement.

Scooting down my body, his long hair tickling and his lips ghosting my flesh as he murmured against it, "Now, I want you to hold absolutely still while I continue this lesson." My hips arched as his hand came to rest on my inner thigh, his fingers tracing a pattern ever closer to – _fuck!_

His fingers drew away and his head rested on my thigh as he stared fiercely up into my eyes, "Promise me that you'll exercise your legendary _tenacity_ and control yourself…if not for your curiosity's sake in wanting to know how good it can be, then for compassion's sake for me."

I almost said 'Screw curiosity and compassion!" but then I gazed into his eyes and saw how much he wanted this, so I did as he asked and resolved to give my 'tenacity' (what positively diplomatic way to call me stubborn) a new goal to work towards – conquering the unchartered territory of surrendering control to another.

He smiled and kissed my thigh in gratitude.

Slowly, ever so slowly, he removed my lacey briefs. His warm brown eyes never leaving mine as his lips followed the trail of his fingers. Once he discarded them, he took my left leg, kissed the inside of my knee, and draped it over his shoulder. My breath hitched in anticipation. The low smoldering burn in my center was building in intensity, and he hadn't even touched me where I so longed for him to.

My other leg was gently moved to rest on his thigh, giving him a better angle to his target. His hands cupped my bottom and kneaded the muscles there, before he dragged me closer to feast on my already dripping core.

And feast he did.

His tongue, his oh-so clever tongue, darted out and into my slick folds, lapping my slit from bottom to top, swirling around my sensitive nub. He flicked it once, twice, and then drew it into his warm mouth before beginning the process all over.

Gods, I loved his tongue. I loved what it could do to me, what it was doing to me. He was undoing me, bringing me to the edge of my resolve and back again. I started to writhe beneath his ministrations. I wanted to sink my fingers into his hair, to encourage him, to make sure he didn't stop, to –

He must have sensed my intentions because he placed one hand at my hip to keep me in place as he hoarsely ordered, "Don't, Deege. If you touch me, it'll be over before we get to the even better stuff."

His warm breath was like a cool breeze over my heated flesh, and I squirmed despite myself, but still I kept my hands balled up in the sheets.

It was a good thing that I had this anchor because his tongue was suddenly inside of me, stroking me, stoking my fires, sending me up to dizzying heights – _up, up, and away_. He moaned his pleasure, murmuring something about how good I tasted. His contented humming combined with his tongue-fucking and clit-sucking sent an electrifying jolt throughout my body, and I was suddenly a bucking, convulsing mass of over stimulated woman, whimpering and crying and seeing visions in Technicolor as I reached euphoric bliss.

He nuzzled my core as I came down from my earth-shattering high, gave it a soothing kiss, and then stood up. I watched him from beneath my heavy lids as he did an impromptu strip-tease. He took his socks off first. I noted randomly that Jeb was not a man to fall victim to the sock gap, that deadliest pit of socks. I bit my lip to suppress my giggle.

Jeb raised a questioning eyebrow at my smile, but continued on, reaching for his pants' fastenings.

It was in that moment that I had a horrid thought. And because I lack a brain-mouth filter, I voiced it.

"What do you think your father is doing right now?"

I didn't even have to see Jeb's disbelieving Look of _"Are you kidding me? You're thinking of my father. Now?" _to know that I had made a grievous error. Covering my mouth in horror as if I could try and take the words back, I stared at him mortified.

I hastily tried to explain myself, gesticulating wildly, "Oh shit. I'm not thinking of – _of him_ while we're – but it is because of – you know. Oh, boy. I mean, that he usually has a sixth sense about what time we get back and he calls, you know, _ensuring_ that I'm not staying for more than a nightcap... er, the whiskey kind."

After an agonizing moment, Jeb grunted his acknowledgment of the truth of my statement.

And it was true. Every time we had gone out on a date since he found out about us and I had come back here to avoid the Palace eyes and ears and extend my night with him, Wyatt _freaking_ Cain had called to shoot the breeze with his son, sounding sincerely surprised that he had interrupted our evening. This was the farthest we had ever gotten. Usually, we only managed to get to first base; once, we got to second.

And how did his father find out about us? Well, believe it or not, our secret romance had quite successfully managed to escape his Tin Man nose for surreptitious behavior. No, the truth is Jeb blabbed it.

They had been having another discussion about Jeb's lack of a major and his assorted and varied studies at the time of his unfortunate slip. Cain had pointed out that a rancher doesn't need to know about Evian cuisine or a lawyer need to know about the chemical formula used to convert water into fuel (which is what OZians run their engines on). Jeb both tired of the argument and in awe that he actually got to have this argument with his father at all had shot his mouth off, saying slyly, _"Well then, I'll just be the most well-informed Prince Consort there ever was."_

I had been contemplating my next move for the chess game that Cain and I had been playing, when Jeb popped on over, so I had prime seating to see my friend's mouth drop open as he reeled from that revelation. The afternoon deteriorated from there as we tried to calm him down, answer all his questions, alleviate all his concerns, and convince him not to tell anyone – not even my parents.

We lost that last battle. But that is neither here nor there at the moment.

What is of import is that my lover had that irritating, gloating 'you just stepped in it' half-smirk of his on his face, while at the same time he was shooting me a piercing gaze as he shoved his pants down and kicked them aside. (_Hubba, hubba, hubba. _He had gone commando for the evening.) As he stalked towards me, his hazel brown eyes were glinting with a predatory gleam.

Instinctively, I scooted away from this beautiful yet fierce hunter, towards the middle of the bed. He was not going to have any of that however. His arm snaked out and grabbed one of my ankles, dragging me towards his leonine frame, as he snarled, "DG, you are so going to pay for that. I'm going to take you so hard and fast, that there will only be one Cain name on your mind and falling from your lips. MINE."

And just as the qualities that he admires about me came to play in the bedroom, so did his. The man took charge and kept his promises. _Oh boy, did he ever._

He pressed me into his mattress, forcing skin on skin contact, fusing his hard muscles to my soft curves. His right hand grabbed the base of my neck and brought my face up to his, his feverish mouth consuming my lips and demanding entrance. I opened to him without hesitation, and he rammed his tongue in, leaving no doubt his would be leading this dance. His left hand grabbed my leg and crooked it over his hip. I followed his lead here too, and brought my other leg around him, locking them together at the small of his back.

And to the rhythm of his insistent and dominating tongue, he plunged into me, filling me, and then he was pulling out. Before I could make a sound of protest, he was slamming into me again. I soon picked up on the tempo and matched him thrust for thrust. And just when I was teetering on the edge, he stilled.

This time, I ripped my mouth from his, managing to make a mewling objection, but then he moved, swiveling his hips as he drew out and then reversing as he slid back in, hitting that glorious spot. I threw my head back and moaned, arching into him, begging for more.

He leaned forward, putting all his weight on his elbows, which were on either side of my head, and whispered harshly, "Deege, whose name are you going to scream when I make you come?"

"Yours," I hissed as I rocked desperately against him.

"That's right, sweetheart, and don't you ever forget it," he growled, and then he run his tongue around my earlobe as he drove his cock into me, the base of his shaft rubbing my clit.

With each thrust, his tongue swirled, my clit was crushed, and my brain was overloaded with waves of pleasure. I began to keen as the pressure built to the level of unbearable. _"Jeb …Jeeeb! …Jeeeeeeb!" _And as I clenched around him, milking him as he buried himself in me as deeply as he could go, I scrabbled at his sweat-slicked back, digging my nails in and probably adding a few scars of my own to his collection.

We shattered at the same time, calling out each other's names and letting loose strings of obscenities.

While we tried to catch our breath, he pulled back and sat on his haunches, dragging me with him, so that I was straddling his lap. We sat like that for awhile, forehead to forehead, running our hands over each other, murmuring sweet nothings. In my haze, I didn't comprehend half of what he said, but after the third or fourth repetition of my name, I smirked, "That's my name, and you, Jeb Cain, can wear it out anytime."

He chuckled as his lips brushed mine, "Oh, sweetheart, as soon as I recover, I'll have you so worn out that you'll think your bones were noodles."

I rolled my eyes, but didn't bother to correct his misunderstanding of my slipperism. I had far more important things to do, like kiss that smirk off his gorgeous face.

Forty-five minutes later, I was limp as a wet noodle.

As I drifted off to sleep, three things ran through my mind: Az and I had no idea what the consequences would be for making our vow…But thank Ozma for new leaves. Bless Jeb Cain and his ability to keep his word. And … _heck, yes!_ The tin man's son would make the most well-informed, talented, and trustworthy Prince Consort ever. Let _that_ campaign begin.

* * *

**AN:** I predict that DG's campaign will be successful and in a few months, Jeb Cain will be on one knee - or whatever is the OZian custom for proposals - and popping The Question. And within 1.3 seconds, he will find himself flat on his back, tackled by an ecstatic and exuberant DG, smothering him with kisses and deafening him with her many delighted yells of 'heck, yes!'

Now, if you are wondering the answer to DG's question as to what Wyatt Cain was up to that resulted in his _forgivable _omission to call his son... click Next. After you review, of course ; )


	3. Chapter 3

******Promises:**

_**Carina:**_

If I had heard DG's thoughts on what Wyatt's face would be like during intercourse, I would have happily set her straight.

It wasn't comical at all. It was breathtaking. He was breathtaking.

When he was struggling to maintain his self-control, his square jaw would clench and the tendons in the neck would strain from the effort, which was what he was doing right now as he hovered above me, waiting for my body to grow accustomed to him. I couldn't resist not touching his face when he was like that, warring with himself to put my needs ahead of his own.

I reached up and cupped his face in my hand, rubbing my thumb across his stubbled jaw (Oh, how I loved that I could make him forget to shave!), whispering my permission, "Move, Wyatt."

He did, slowly thrusting in and out.

When he did this, his blue eyes would darken, never closing or rolling back, but boring into my soul like his magnificent cock bores into my slick-and-aching-for-him pussy. He takes in every nuance of my expressions, and his mouth – when not otherwise stimulatingly occupied – quirks in that sexy wolfish smirk of his, thoroughly enjoying the whimpers and curses that his pleasuring of me elicits.

When my walls tighten around him and we fall together, his eyes, his crystal blue eyes truly become windows to his soul, his usually guarded face softens, becomes un-shuttered, vulnerable. He let's go of everything, exposing himself, opening to me, letting me in as I have for him.

The act of making love with Wyatt Cain is beautiful.

When the aftershocks had ceased, Wyatt collapsed on top of me, taking care not to crush me. His head now rested on my chest right above my heart, his ragged breathing tickling me and drying my sweaty skin where it blew across.

Instinctively, my hands began soothing his shuddering muscles, alternating between caressing them and lightly raking my nails up and down his broad back.

He grunted his appreciation for my actions, but still needing to do more, he took my left hand with his right and brought it to his lips, kissing each digit before lacing our fingers together.

We lay like that for awhile, with him still cradled between my thighs, head on my rising and falling chest, our intertwined hands on my shoulder, his rough and calloused thumb rubbing circles on the back of my hand as my free hand danced up and down his back. As he drifted in and out of sleep, I mused on how we came to be here.

Wyatt Cain was the new guy on my father's protection detail when I first knew him. I didn't really get to know him beyond the barest of facts learned from three months of observation before my father shipped my mother and me to a trusted friend's estate. He was happily married, had a seven year-old son who he whittled toys for, and he drank his coffee black.

My mother and I were sent packing because the Sorceress was quickly gaining in power, and my father feared that our being the Mystic Man's loved ones would endanger us. I knew that Mr. Cain stayed with my father for three years before disappearing off the face of the earth and that less than a year later the Great and Terrible, my renowned-for-his-wisdom Papa, was now a member of the pathetic vapor-mad.

The next time I saw Wyatt was at the Victory Gala, held three months after the Eclipse. It had been from afar. He was up on the dais, being declared a hero. But even at that distance I could tell he was uncomfortable with the attention. (His shoulders were stiff with tension and his trigger fingers twitched.) Not long after that, he melted into the crowd.

I was receiving condolences from yet another distant family acquaintance for the death of my parents (my mother died of a broken heart after months of hearing reports of the man she loved deteriorating into an imbecile), when from over the shoulders of this insignificant couple, I caught him staring at me, squinting as if trying to place a name to the vaguely familiar face.

I made my excuses and walked over to him, taking in the lines around his eyes and mouth, the hollowed look of someone who has experienced devastating loss. I knew it well, for it gazed back at me in the mirror every morning.

Smiling knowingly and holding out my hand, I reintroduced myself, "Carina, the Mystic Man's daughter."

His eyes widened in surprise and flickered over my fully-matured body in disbelief.

I giggled. "Yes, a lot has changed since you last saw me."

His ears turned pink, as he realized that his thoughts had been so easily read.

It wasn't all that hard to do really. I had been a coltish sixteen year-old when he last saw me, awkward, shy, and flat-chested. Now I was far more graceful, certainly more comfortable with my long limbs, radiating confidence, and filling out my dress quite nicely.

I was later to find out that it was that dress – its bold redness in a sea of pastel and shades of green had caught his attention.

"_There you were, this siren in crimson. Your dark curls were half piled on top of your head, adorned by a simple diadem, and cascading over your shoulders and down your back. Your head was thrown back as you let out the most sensual laugh I've ever heard, your throat gleaming in the moonlight. I was so filled with self-loathing at my reaction to you, feeling a traitor to Adora's memory, that I searched for anything to mar your perfection. And all that I could latch on to was the nagging sense that I ought to know you from somewhere. I thought maybe you were some performer, a singer or actor, that I had seen or maybe a nobleman's escort."_

I had laughed and teased him at that last bit, "Either you thought that some nobleman had robbed the cradle, or you judged my age to be quite a bit older than I really am."

His ears had tinged that adorable pink again. And for that reaction alone, I take full advantage of the rare occasions that he is hatless and tease my tin man mercilessly.

My next encounter with the Hero of the Eclipse and recently commissioned Chief Central City Tin Man was when I had a meeting with the Consort.

I am an activist for the children of the O.Z. My latest concern has been the orphans who took refuge in the Unwanted Realm. They are vulnerable to the enticements and promises of the underworld gang-lords. As the Consort also took haven there for some years and knew what a difficult lifestyle it is down there, I sought him as an ally. Wyatt was meeting with the Queen's advisor, Lord Ambrose, to arrange a surprise for Princess DG (a motorcycle).

We met at the front steps (he was exiting, I was entering), exchanged greetings, and then into the awkward silence, I asked him out for a cup of coffee under the pretense (which was mostly true) that I wanted to discuss my father's last years with him.

We met up three days later at a quaint little shop called the Jaded Tea. My pretense lasted about five minutes. There really wasn't much to say beyond "He was a good man, fought the Bitch with every resource he had, even in his dying moments, and he missed his family very much."

We quickly moved on to other topics. I asked about his family. He told me of Adora's death. I shared with him my mother's. He told me of Jeb, finding he was alive, what the boy was currently doing. He didn't say it, but I could tell that the two of them were struggling. But his downcast eyes immediately lit up as he proudly told of his son's acceptance into the local university. To this day, even though he is concerned about the seemingly directionless life his son is leading, he is elated that it is not bent in the direction of violence. He wants so much more for him.

My heart broke for him when he talked of his wife. It did an odd little staccato skip for him when he discussed his son, his voice rough with pride, and when he talked of his friend the Princess, his eyes soft with affection. It nearly beat its way out of my chest when he took an interest in my project, making suggestions and freely offering his contacts and favors-owed.

We met several times after that, having lunches to discuss my "Unwanted Kids." Lunches became dinners; dinners at restaurants became private meals at his place or mine, always the conversation branching off into more personal subjects. And then the night came where we celebrated the passing of the bill that provided funding for my kids to have homes run by nurture units.

One moment we were toasting our success, the next we were devouring each other's lips, and the next, I was discovering the wonders of his hands.

Oh, his hands. His rough, work-calloused hands that are oh-so capable, clever, and eager to touch – how do I love them.

Eight years in that iron suit, totally sensory deprived except for the holographic vision sadistically replayed over and over for him, resulted in him becoming a physically affectionate person. Most people wouldn't believe that of him, but they just weren't paying as close attention to him as I was.

Whenever he was done talking to a subordinate or friend that he respects or his son, he gives them an encouraging pat on the shoulder or squeeze as the situation calls for. He always greets his son with a hug, and if the princess would let him, he would be the one to initiate their embraces every now and then. When he could get away with it, he always keeps an arm draped over his royal friend's shoulder, pinning her to his side as they walk and talk. And now he does the same thing to _me_ – except in a far less platonic manner.

The morning after our slightly intoxicated tryst was somewhat awkward as his chivalrous side kicked in to gear.

But I nipped that in the bud rather quickly, saying, "If we need a bottle of Win-kia's finest to have a repeat of that, I had better buy out controlling interest, because there will be _many_ repeats."

He had raised his eyebrows in an "Oh really? You think so?" expression, but his lips had spread into his wolfish grin, the only warning I received before he pounced and demonstrated his acceptance of my declaration.

And so, a few months later, here we are.

My thoughts were interrupted as Wyatt turned his head so that he could kiss the nearest patch of my skin. I let out an encouraging sigh, as I let my fingers sift through his short titan locks.

He chuckled softly at my response as his lips worked their magic, ghosting along my flesh, his nose skimming along my collarbone, before he began to pay particular attention to the hollow at my throat. _Oh, so _**wickedly**_ magical…_

My trip to the heavens was suddenly brought to a grinding halt as the words that Wyatt had mumbled between kisses registered. Surprise was overtaken by disbelief, which was followed by bewilderment. I lay there in stunned silence for I don't know how long trying to figure _why_ Cain would ask me such a thing – because it couldn't possibly be for the obvious reason. I wasn't the One.

When my brain finally came up with a logical explanation, hurt and then outrage swelled up within me, and I grabbed him by the hairs at the back of his neck and jerked his head up. I stared irately into his confusion filled eyes and hissed, "Wyatt Cain, you had better not be asking me _that_ because you're trying to make an honest woman of me."

His blue eyes twinkled with mirth, as he teased, "An honest woman, you? Impossible."

Unamused, I scowled and pushed away from him, futilely trying to scoot out from under him, as I snapped, "So you're _question_ was what? A way to soothe your conscience?" I pitched my voice to sound like a holier-than-thou, pompous prick, "Congratulations, Tin Man, you did the _honorable_ thing and tried to do right by your lover. It's not your fault that she loves her nonconformist life so much that she chooses to live like a courtesan – "

Wyatt had been gaping in disbelief at my bitter diatribe, but now his head was buried in the crook of my neck and his shoulders were shaking with laughter – _laughter!_

I slapped at him irritably, cuffing his shoulder, "It's not funny!"

He immediately stilled and then reared up and gave me an apologetic kiss as he sighed, "You're right. It's not." And then in one fluent move he shifted off of me and pulled me down so that I was cradled into his side with my head tucked underneath his chin. His left hand holding me to him, his right, running thoughtfully and soothingly through my sweat-drenched and tangled curls.

Murmuring into my hair, he said, "It's just… you thought I asked you to chain your life to me for honorable – misguided, but honorable reasons…I can tell you that my motivations are far from noble." His hand cupped my rear and then dragged my leg so that it was draped over his muscular thigh, and then he breathed huskily into my ear, "I want you all to myself."

I groaned then. His words rang with masculine possessiveness and desire and his hands began to work their magic as they kneaded the tension out of my shoulders and back, "I want to be the only man driven crazy by your zillionth mad dash search for your misplaced shoe or earring, when we're already late because you changed your outfit for the dozenth time out of your need for perfection."

His right hand began to idly caress my breast, sending waves of tingling shivers up my spine, as he continued his bizarre I'm-a-jealous-man speech, "I want to be the only man that gets so under your skin and on your last nerve that you blow your gasket and give me the most eloquently vicious tongue-lashing, the kind reserved only for those to whom you deem worthy of your time and effort of putting 'em in their place."

_Note to self: Wyatt is a glutton for punishment. _He kind of had a point though. I don't bother reprimanding those that I don't give a damn about. Unfortunately, the more I care, the harsher my invectives are.

"I want to be the only man whose shirts you walk around in, in the mornings, because you can't find your own, forgetting that I always put them in their proper drawer after finding them at the bottom of the closet or over a lamp."

I chuckled. It was true. Our first half-serious argument had been over my less than tidy habits at _his_ orderly apartment. I won, when I impudently told him it was my way of marking my territory. He had grunted and rolled his eyes muttering how he couldn't understood why my love bites weren't enough, all the while neatly folding my night robe and placing it into the left bottom drawer of his dresser, my drawer.

"You do realize that all those charms of mine that you just listed as coveting – wardrobe perfectionism, indecisiveness, tardiness, sloppiness, horrific temper tantrums – are all character flaws?" I noted dryly.

His chest rumbled with amusement as he contemplatively replied, "Well, that's the true test, isn't it? Not to love someone despite their faults, but to love them _including_ their faults and on most days, finding them to be endearing quirks."

My breath hitched at his implied words, but all that I could manage to get out was a less than gracious, "I'll have to take your word for it."

His hands briefly paused in their ministrations as he whispered with sudden understanding, "So that's what's the matter…Adora." And then, he rolled on to his left arm, propping himself up, so that he wasn't crushing me, as I was back underneath him. His eyes darkened to indigo as he gazed at me seriously, "Carina, if there is one thing that I've learned since DG let me out of that iron hell-hole and it's that my heart didn't die with Adora. In fact, it's capable of expanding to include the beautiful woman before me." To prove his point, his lips descended upon mine, devouring them, hungrily and yet tenderly, expressing his desire for me, his need of me, his… _love_ for me better than any words could.

I reciprocated wordlessly, if not soundlessly, communicating my love for him. His hand had returned to my breast, and there was nothing lackadaisical about his caresses now. While vigorously massaging me, he would roll my hardened nipple between his index finger and thumb and then pinch it, following with this little twirl and flick thing with said finger. This highly erotic technique of his had me eagerly arching into his touch and flexing my leg at the small of his back, trying to press him closer to me. I wanted to be fused to him, his flesh and mine to become literally one.

He moaned and jerked his mouth from mine to rumble, "I forgot to mention that I want my name to be the only name shouted at the top of your lungs until the day I'm six feet under."

I ran my hands down his chest, feeling his hardened planes, as I sniggered, teasing evilly, "So the day of…I can scream someone else's name in a fit of heated passion?"

Wyatt growled his displeasure before his mouth once again began plundering mine. His hand left my breast and mirrored my actions, except it didn't settle at my hips or cup my ass. No, it delved into my nether-curls, where his deft finger repeated the torturous little trick he had done to my nipple to my sensitized button.

This time it was I who pulled away, unable to take the added stimulus of his tongue masterfully stroking mine as well as his finger's clever manipulations of my pleasure center. I began to keen when his two (yes, two!) glorious fingers slipped into me and began pumping.

Against my exposed throat, he huskily promised, "Except for my lingering nightmare, it will only be your name I cry into the night as long as I have breath within me… if you'll let me."

His fingers curled inside me then, sending me sky-rocketing into the realms of mind-blanking ecstasy. I saw nothing but the blazing cerulean suns that were his eyes and could remember nothing of what we were discussing.

I finally managed to grind out as I frenetically rode his dexterous digits, "It's maddening that you have the skill to make a girl forget why she's mad at you to begin with, you know."

He chuckled low in his throat appreciatively before asking, "So is that a yes?"

Wanting to return the mind-numbing favor, I reached down and encircle the base of his hardened length with my ring finger and thumb while my middle and index fingers scratched the underside of his balls to the tempo of my rhythmic and methodical pumping.

His whole face went slack and his eyes glazed over, but my Tin Man is not so easily deterred. Groaning, he desperately asked, "Ca-RIN-a?"

My hips arched up, sliding his no-longer-moving fingers deeper inside me, as I coyly breathed against the corners of his mouth, "It's a maybe."

He let out a frustrated snarl as his hand left me to snatch my wrist and pin it above my hand, and then with a quick thrust of his hips, he buried himself in me, filling me completely.

His eyes were narrowed and practically sparking in their fierce intensity, and his voice was rough as he harshly bit out, "Carina, darlin', when I'm done with you, not only will you be hollerin' my name, you will be groaning, moaning, and whimpering 'yes' and begging me to make you forever mine right then."

And then he began moving.

And I am not ashamed to say that I ended up doing exactly as he promised.

In the morning, we realized that Wyatt, who had yet to introduce me to his son, was now going to have to do so with the added title as the future Mrs. Carina Cain. _Ozma, help us._


End file.
